


harry potter and the goblet of fire

by thatlavendersweater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Everyone's a teenager, F/F, F/M, M/M, Sad Ending, Tragic Romance, basically an angsty teenage rewrite of the series, harry's a mess like always, harry's suddenly contemplating who he's attracted to, he's a lovable idiot i mean just look at him, hidden wolfstar, this is basically harry potter and all the ships i wanted to happen in the series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23446069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatlavendersweater/pseuds/thatlavendersweater
Summary: it's the beginning of fourth year, and harry starts to develop a crush on a certain golden boy (and his really pretty girlfriend).feelings start, crushing inner conflict overshadows everything, and fleeting teenage romance becomes a thing.and harry can barely handle being cast into a tournament he never asked to be part of, much less an (almost) innocent attraction to two people way out of his league.*this is basically a rewrite of the books with ships/couples i believe in wholeheartedly, so fourth year is going to be a bit of hermione and krum, a bit of wolfstar and a whole lot of cedric and harry and cho because that's the way it should be.
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter, Cho Chang/Cedric Diggory, Cho Chang/Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter, Cho Chang/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Viktor Krum/Ron Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. prologue: sirius and remus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is sort of a short prologue, just to get into the angst a bit because i love writing it and this work will have a whole lot of it.  
> this scene is between sirius and remus and it takes place right after the events of prisoner of azkaban. it's the moment of reconciliation they didn't get the chance to have before. it's them just taking a minute and being with each other and trying to make sense of everything.  
> things tumble out into the open and the divide of the past twelve years starts to mend.

He always knew the time would come where they would find themselves alone, no other distraction to hide under. It was inevitable.

Sirius gazed at the other man’s face urgently. He had to leave, there was no question about that. Peter was nowhere to be found, leaving him with the joyful privilege of remaining an escaped convict. And Snape would no doubt make sure he was taken back to Azkaban as soon as possible.

But he couldn’t leave just yet. Not before something happened. Not before he did something to alleviate the weight on his chest he’d been carrying for over a decade.

They’d been sitting in silence, neither one knowing how to start, how to begin to mend the divide between them.

“He’s more like his father than he knows,” Remus blurted out. Sirius watched him struggle to find a way out, a way to end the awkwardness. A fondness bloomed in his chest.

“He is.”

“It haunts me,” the man said, voice trembling a minute amount. Sirius’ fingers twitched. His hands ached to touch skin, arms ached to be full of soft, familiar boy. He blinked. No, not boy. Man. 

Shit. Neither of them were boys. Remus, no longer rosy-cheeked and soft. Sirius, halfway to emptiness and starved of everything good.

They were men now. Torn, ravaged, men.

A sudden wave of emotion knocked him down and he fell to his knees, black hair falling in his face like a thick, long curtain. He needed to apologize. This was his fault. The fact that Remus was no longer  _ his _ Remus was his fault. That he had lost the privilege of watching Remus grown into a man was his fault. That they had all lost  _ everything _ was  _ his fucking fault _ .

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed out. He bowed his head until his chin touched his chest. Deep, unyielding shame and guilt choked him, clamping a tight hand around his throat.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldve—I should’ve, for fuck’s sake, I’m sorry,” he stumbled over his words, spit leaking out of the corners of his mouth as he broke down into wailing hysterics.

“Sirius—”

“I’m sorry,” he howled mournfully, tugging at the loose fabric of his Azkaban-issued clothing. “Remus, I’m sorry. I lost you. I deserve it—I fucking left them. I should’ve known, I fucking let them die! I let them die!”

“SIRIUS,” Remus grabbed his face forcefully as he yelled his name in a fierce tone.

“I want to die,” Sirius whimpered, face wet with tears. He felt utterly pathetic. But the weight eased a bit.

Remus’ eyes flashed, and for a moment Sirius was unsure of what was going to happen next.

“Why would you say that?” Remus asked. His voice was hurt and ragged, like the very thought of Sirius desiring death was an unthinkable tragedy. It wasn’t. If he had the choice, he would end it. 

But he wouldn’t. Remus was here. And Harry was alive. He was alive and breathing. He had to keep the boy safe. Sirius wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He would love the boy with every broken part of himself he had left. Maybe then, when he died, he could find Lily and James and beg their forgiveness without feeling like a fraud.

“It’s true,” he mumbled simply, licking his lips. He lifted his shoulder in a small shrug.

Remus glared at him for a long moment before he closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. When he opened them, Sirius felt the pressure on his chest increase. He wanted to push it away immediately.

“It is not your fault,” Remus said carefully. Sirius shook his head. No, no, no. It was. It  _ was _ .

“You don’t understand.  _ Remus _ . I was the one who told them it would be a good idea. I was the one who was stupid. I was a fool. And I—I killed them, Moony,” he blubbered out in semblance of an explanation. 

“You are not at fault, Sirius,” Remus insisted gently but sternly. He ran his thumbs along the over-pronounced ridges of his cheekbones. Sirius closed his eyes and relished the rough pads of the man’s fingers against his skin. Fuck it to all hell. He grabbed fistfuls of Remus’s shirt and buried his head into the other man’s chest. He was firmer and broader than he remembered. He wondered how much he had changed underneath the shirt. He no longer looked the part of the scarred, scrawny, lanky boy he used to be. At least not with the clothes he was currently wearing.

An abrupt, maniacal laugh bubbled up from his throat.

“You look like a proper professor,” Sirius noted with a smile. He let out a watery laugh, shoulders heaving with the effort.

“Ah. Yeah, I guess I do,” Remus agreed softly with a growing smirk. “What else would you expect? I was bored. Had nothing better to do.”

Sirius smiled, “Well, I’m here now.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. He could feel the tears and snot and spit still lingering on his face, but Sirius appreciated the change in mood. He wanted to push away the pain and guilt for a moment and re-familiarize himself with the majority of his heart currently kneeling in front of him.

Their faces were almost level.

“Did you shrink?” Sirius asked, head tilted to one side.

Remus scoffed, “No. Why would you ask that?”

“Well, I seem to remember you being a head taller than me. A fact which you reminded me of every waking moment.”

“Perhaps you grew, then.”

Sirius stared at him, smile fading a bit.

“I did no growing in Azkaban, I can assure you.”

A pause.

“ _ Sirius _ ,” Remus drew out his name softly and something in Sirius broke. It had been too long since he’d heard his name like that. Gentle and adoring and empathetic. There was a hint of pity that he decided to ignore. It would go away with time. And at least they had that now. Time.

“Remus,” he breathed out, “You were my innocence. You were my pain, my guilt, and my innocence. I let you down.”

Remus shook his head, “No, no.  _ I _ let you down. I should’ve known. I should’ve gotten you out of there, somehow. I should’ve looked for clues, or something. I should’ve never given up so easily.”

“You were in mourning,” Sirius reminded him softly. 

“You were in  _ Azkaban _ .”

Shit. 

He brought his hands up to cup Remus’ face. They knelt there on the floor, holding each other. He wondered how ridiculous they looked. Two men, one in professor’s clothing and the other in dirty rags, trying to reassure each other over something that would never stop haunting them.

“Remus. I was the one who doubted you in the first place. I let you down first. Don’t you dare look for excuses to put this on yourself. That’s how you’ve always been and I won’t have it now,” Sirius insisted.

“Look who’s talking! You are the one who spent the past twelve years blaming yourself for something you couldn’t have controlled!”

“I could’ve controlled it! That’s the whole bloody point, isn’t it! I could’ve told Lily and James to trust you instead! Or—I could’ve gone along with the bloody plan in the first place and kept my mouth shut. I could’ve known, Remus! I could’ve known my own  _ fucking best friend _ ! I could’ve run to James and Lily and gotten there faster and, at the very least,  _ died with them _ !”

“For fuck’s sake, Sirius!” Remus bellowed, “I won’t hear you say you want to die again!”

“Then hate me! Curse me! Treat me like the stupid fool I am, I swear to Merlin, you should hate me for what I did to James and Lily and Harry and you. I doubted you, I should’ve never doubted you. I was an idiot! And then I just left you, me and Peter both. I mean, how horrible, Remus?  _ How fucking horrible _ ?”

“You couldn’t have said goodbye, even if you wanted to! They took you away and named Peter a hero! Not even a bloody fucking trial! Twelve muggles dead and a fucking  _ finger _ ? I woke up to a nightmare, you know that? You didn’t tell me. None of you, not Peter, not James, not Lily. Not you. What was the world supposed to think?  _ What was I supposed to think _ ?”

Sirius watched him hunch over, face in his hands, defeated. It was an achingly sad sight.

“Yes,” Remus continued in a broken voice, “I hated you. I loved you and then I hated you. I was broken. But you’re back. You’re here. And I’m a lucky bastard for it.”

“I’m the one who’s lucky.”

“Sirius, please.”

Sirius relented. He would argue later. Right now, they were both exhausted. 

“Snape’s not gonna let you off easy,” Sirius said. Remus looked up at him tiredly.

“No. He certainly won’t delay my dismissal.”

“Yeah. I’m sure Harry won’t be happy.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Well, if he’s anything like James—which he undoubtedly is—he might be stupid enough to not be fine.”

Remus smiled fondly.

“Eh, he’s got a bit of Lily in him. That should even it out. I’ve seen the kid. So have you.”

Sirius looked down shyly and after a moment admitted, “I asked him to come stay with me. You know, as my godson. Of course, not right now, of course, but when, you know, when we manage to fix this shit and somehow—”

Remus smiled, “I’m sure he accepted.”

“Yeah,” Sirius blinked. After a moment, he let out a shaky sigh, “Merlin, he’s grown. Couldn’t help myself, felt like sobbing the moment I saw him. I remember him as a tiny baby, wreaking havoc, and I’d think sure he definitely is James’ son. I remember holding him and he would pull my hair out with his tiny hands, you remember that? I’d curse so loud and Lily would forbid me from ever seeing him again.”

Sirius’ voice broke and he looked up at Remus. He had tears in his eyes and Sirius could almost see his ragged reflection in them.

“I remember,” the man said softly. Sirius nodded in response, couldn’t open his mouth for fear of descending into tears again.

“If it makes you feel any better, he’s got himself quite the pair of friends.”

Sirius laughed wetly, “Quite a fucking pair! The girl’s a perceptive one. Clever.”

Remus nodded with a grin, “Yeah. Hermione.”

“Yeah, Hermione. She reminds me of you, you know? And Ron, right? He, uh, reminded me a bit of James. And myself.”

Remus looked up sharply.

“How so?”

“He was willing to die when I found them. The poor creature. Doesn’t even know the concept of it but he was ready to do so. I could see it. He meant it when he threatened me. And he was clearly scared shitless, too. He’d do anything for the other two, I could see it. Feel it. Felt familiar.”

“Right,” Remus cleared his throat, “Well, that’s because you went into it stupidly, looking like a madman, howling bloody murder. They’re third years, for Merlin’s sake.”

“If I recall correctly,  _ you _ were the one doing the howling.”

“ _ Sirius _ . Not funny.”

“What?” Sirius asked, mustering up a mock wounded expression.

“You’re as horrible as the day I met you,” Remus rolled his eyes fondly. “You could stand to be a bit less dramatic, you know that?”

Sirius looked at him gravely, “How can a man be asked to stop being the very thing that makes him himself? The very idea that makes up his person, how can he be asked to suppress it? How can—”

“Alright, alright,” Remus waved his hand dismissively, “Shut up.”

Sirius watched a fond smile grow on the other man’s face. A warmth bloomed in his chest for the first time in a long, long while.

“It’s nice to see you smile, Moony,” he said softly. Remus looked down, contemplating, before looking back up at Sirius.

“It’s nice to see you being an arse like always, Padfoot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello,
> 
> i love wolfstar with all my heart. i love sirius and remus just as much of not more. i hope this—and the rest of this work—does justice to the books and its characters. i don't mean to impose or offend rather just build upon this story and this world.  
> i hope you enjoy! thank you so much for reading!
> 
> until next time,  
> n.


	2. harry potter and the muggle way of things.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time jump—this chapter takes place the morning of the world cup, the moment harry sees cedric and realizes how wonderfully handsome he is (how did he not notice this before? because he's a bit oblivious when it comes to these things...)

He was standing there, so effortlessly beautiful that Harry had to blink rapidly a few times. He looked like some celestial being, with golden sunshine dancing across his unbearably handsome face. A cool breeze rushed past them and Harry watched in helpless awe as dark curls brushed against the boy’s forehead and settled into a tousled style that made Harry’s heart a bit weak. This was just unfair.

“This is my boy, Cedric,” the older man next to the boy stated proudly. Amos Diggory, his name was. At least, that was what Mr. Weasley had called out to the man just a few moments before.

“Well, haven’t you grown into quite the handsome young chap!” Mr. Weasley cried out with a friendly smile.

Harry agreed.

“Woah,” he heard Ginny murmur to Hermione privately.

Harry nodded to himself.

“Woah,” Hermione repeated back in dreamy agreement and he thought he heard a deep, satisfied sigh follow.

Harry nodded to himself again.

“Hi everyone. It’s nice to see you, Mr. Weasley,” Cedric said pleasantly, holding a hand out to shake Mr. Weasley’s hand firmly.

“Oh, my boy. It’s nice to see you, too,” Mr. Weasley said, “Now, let’s get to this portkey shall we? Excited for the World Cup?”

“Yeah,” Cedric let out a breathy laugh that made Harry’s insides tumble around strangely.

“We got up at 2 in the morning, we did! Wouldn’t miss the World Cup for anything. Long walk, Arthur?” Amos asked amicably.

“Not too bad,” Mr. Weasley responded. Harry could beg to differ. His legs were still vibrating and aching from trekking up the steep hill.

“Are these all yours?” Cedric’s father asked with a congenial glance at the six of them.

“Oh,” Mr. Weasley laughed, “Oh no, only the ones with red hair. Although these ones are practically family, aren’t they? This is Hermione, good friend of Ron’s, and Harry, another good friend of Ron’s—”

“Merlin’s beard,” Amos Diggory cried out, a shocked expression stretching his features, “Harry? Harry  _ Potter _ , you mean?”

Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Weren’t there any other miserable blokes named Harry in the wizarding world?

“Yeah, that’s me,” Harry mumbled, raising his hand a bit like he was being called out in class.

“Harry, my boy, it is so nice to meet you,” Amos Diggory proclaimed, his chest still puffed and proud.

“It’s, uh, it’s nice to meet you, too, sir,” Harry replied awkwardly. He looked up and saw Cedric’s hand out in a small waving gesture. His eyes were a hypnotizing grey. The color seemed to constantly ebb and flow from light to dark. Harry blinked.

“Hey, Harry,” Cedric said softly.

“Hi.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Fred and George share a look that could only mean they had not yet forgotten about the devastating defeat of last year’s Quidditch match between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. Cedric had been the one to catch the snitch, winning the game for his house while Gryffindor were left scrambling in the rain after their fallen Seeker. Harry winced at the memory. It had been a bitter loss.

“I was just reminiscing quidditch with Cedric while we were making our way down here, you know. He’s talked a lot about  _ you _ , of course,” Mr. Diggory continued, gesturing at Harry. “Told us all about playing against you last year.”

“Dad,” Cedric began, but was effectively cut off by Mr. Diggory’s laughter.

"I said to him, I said – Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will ...  _ You beat Harry Potter _ !" 

He laughed and Harry tried to join in, but he was sure it came across too forced to be believed.

“Harry fell off his broom, Dad,” Cedric had a deep red blush covering his cheeks and ears. He looked thoroughly embarrassed. “I told you, Dad. It was an accident and all…”

“Yes, but  _ you  _ didn’t fall off  _ your broom _ , did you?” Amos laughed louder, the booming sound echoing off the hill and slightly grating at Harry’s ears. He didn’t stop laughing for at least a minute, much to Harry’s discomfort.

“Always modest, our Ced,” Amos bellowed out after his bout of loud amusement. He threw a seemingly heavy arm around his son. “Always the gentleman.”

Cedric had the decency to look like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

“Well, it’s almost time!” Arthur Weasley cried out, gesturing for everyone to gather around the old misshapen boot that would act as their portkey to the World Cup. 

The conversation had been momentarily diverted. Harry was grateful. Although a lot of events had taken place since that first game, it was still a bit of a sore spot, especially judging from the twins’ matching expressions of distaste.

“Reckon they’ll be like that until we lose the pretty twat,” Ron mumbled in Harry’s ear.

“What?” Harry blinked.

Ron pointed harshly with his thumb to slightly behind them where Harry found Hermione and Ginny barely concealing their impressed gazes. Truthfully, Harry understood where they were coming from. Cedric really was swoonworthy, especially with that pink still staining his slightly freckled cheeks. Amos Diggory’s friendly jeering wasn’t enough to distract from the fact that Cedric was undoubtedly one of the most good-looking people Harry had ever laid eyes on.

“Yeah,” Harry responded rather dumbly. Ron rolled his eyes.

“Not you, too! Come on, Harry.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled as they gathered closer around the portkey.

“Alright, just about a minute off,” Mr. Weasley said, looking closely at his watch. He glanced quickly at Harry and Hermione.

“It’s nothing to it, really. You just need to touch it. A finger’ll do, even.”

Harry and Hermione nodded. All nine of them clutched at the boot and Harry couldn’t help himself from wondering how odd this would look to a passing Muggle.

“Okay, get ready everyone! Three...two...one!” Mr. Weasley cried out. A sickening force jutted out from Harry’s navel, pulling him in some unknown direction. It felt a bit like spinning, as an overwhelming dizziness blurred his senses. They were flying somewhere, anchored to the boot in a way that made Harry feel like he was both going to be forever attached to the measly shoe and going to be hurtled into space at any given moment. It was exhilarating and nauseating.

Until he landed hard, feet-first, on a surface that smelled like fresh, wet grass. Ron stumbled into him, causing him to stumble into Hermione and they all went down, falling harshly against the ground.

“Oh, get off Harry!” Hermione yelped, shoving him away and getting up huffily. Ron dramatically moaned a bit before Harry unceremoniously stood up and gave him an outstretched hand.

“Thanks, mate,” the redhead groaned, hoisting himself up. Harry looked around to find Mr. Weasley, Amos Diggory, and Cedric all standing together and looking thoroughly windswept.

Harry had to admit—thoroughly windswept was a heartbreakingly good look on Cedric. The boy looked like one of those models on the Muggle magazines Hermione brought with her to the Burrow. He recalled Petunia reading them as well, and he would sneak glances at tall, attractive men and women each time she would turn the page.

“Right, we’re here I suppose,” Ron muttered out. Harry blinked out of his thoughts and made a full round, taking in the surroundings. They were in some seemingly unknown stretch of open land, green grass and occasional trees for miles. Two grumpy wizards were stood to their left. One was holding a large golden watch while the other had a roll of parchment and a long quill. Harry inspected their odd outfits and realized they had meant to dress like Muggles, but had clearly gotten no advice on how to do so effectively. The wizard with the golden watch was wearing a pleasant tweed suit the color of black coffee, but the image was interrupted by thigh-high bright green galoshes. The wizard next to him was simply wearing a poncho and a kilt, a combination Harry found himself trying hard not to laugh at.

“Hello Basil,” Mr. Weasley said.

“Hello Arthur,” the man in the poncho-kilt combination said tiredly. His voice was dreary and monotonous, though Harry believed that to be a factor of his current state rather than his personality.

“Not on duty, eh?” Basil said, a dry attempt at conversation. He scrutinized his list while muttering under his breath, “Weasley, Weasley, Weasley. Hmmm. Weasley, Weasley. Ah.”

Basil looked up from his parchment. “A quarter mile’s walk, about. Right down there,” he gestured vaguely behind him to his right, “Mr. Roberts is the site manager. It’ll be the first field you come to on your way.”

Mr. Weasley nodded, “Thanks, Basil.”

He gestured for everyone to gather round.

“Diggory, second field. You’ll be asking for Mr. Payne,” Basil stated, distractedly referring to his parchment list.

Amos Diggory smiled and gave a small salute to Arthur before looping an arm around Cedric’s shoulders and walking in the direction of their site. 

“See you around, Arthur!”

“Goodbye, Amos!”

Harry watched them go for a few moments before he unexpectedly caught himself looking into Cedric’s eyes as the other boy looked back at him over his shoulder.

It was like time stood still for a moment, as horribly cliche as that was. He met deep gray eyes for what seemed like both an instant and an eternity before he was interrupted by Mr. Weasley ushering them to get moving. Ron tapped his shoulder forcefully and Harry blinked, looking back ahead and following the group onwards to their site.

“You okay, Harry? You’re acting weird,” Ron said. Harry shrugged it off, telling him he was fine, that it was just the Portkey.

Ron nodded, going along with Harry’s false answer. “Yeah mate. I still feel a bit sick, I’m telling you.”

Harry looked at him. “I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”

They all walked for quite a bit through misty green moor until they came upon a small cottage. Just beyond the cottage, Harry could make out hundreds of small tents. They were scattered up a slight slope where he could just make out a dark blotch of what seemed like heavily wooded area.

A man was standing at the entrance of the cottage.

“Good morning!” Mr. Weasley greeted.

“Good morning,” the man responded. He was a Muggle, Harry realized. A true, non-magical person, not the miserable muggle-disguised wizards they’d come across up until then. The man was wearing a casual attire of slacks and a button-down with a deep blue tie stark against his pale skin.

“Are you Mr. Roberts?” Mr. Weasley asked. The man nodded stoically.

“Aye, I am Mr. Roberts. And you are?”

“Arthur Weasley. I believe we have two tents?”

Mr. Roberts consulted the thin paper list in his hands before nodding, “Yes. Weasley. You’re up there by the wood. One night?”

Mr. Weasley nodded brightly.

“And you’ll be paying now?”

“Oh!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed. “Why, yes. Uh, yes, we will be paying now…”

He nervously pulled out a roll of Muggle money and started to shuffle awkwardly through the bills, inspecting each of them closely.

“I, uh—this one’s a ten, right? Or a five? Ah yes! I see the numbers on them. The numbers, yes this is a ten. Okay...and this is a…oh, these papers are just so...”

Mr. Weasley looked at Harry and Hermione a bit desperately and Harry gently made his way over and reached for the bill.

“That’s a twenty, that’s all,” Harry murmured under his breath, handing it back to Mr. Weasley. He glanced quickly at Mr. Roberts, suddenly hyper-aware of his presence. 

“You foreign?” Mr. Roberts asked bluntly. 

“Sorry?” Mr. Weasley said, voice slightly higher than normal.

“You foreign?” Mr. Roberts repeated. “You’re not the first one, like. To have trouble with money. In fact, just before you, I had two men try to buy tents with some humongous gold coins. Practically the size of my hand, you know? Weird folk.”

“Oh really?” Mr. Weasley’s voice was a tad bit higher. His mouth twitched nervously as he reached out to hand a set of bills over.

“The tenner, Mr. Weasley,” Harry reminded the man in a soft, private voice. Mr. Weasley retracted his hand like it was on fire and added a ten pound note to the fold of bills in his hand. He gave them timidly over to the Muggle Irishmen going off about all the strange people and their strange behaviors.

“Aye. Loads of foreigners, I don’t know. There’s a random bloke walking around in a poncho and a kilt, like. Have you seen him?” Mr. Roberts spoke in a tone that was quite similar to that of a gossiping housewife.

“Oh, why that’s just—just bizarre!” Mr. Weasley said a bit too enthusiastically.

Mr. Roberts shook his head as he rummaged through a bag of change.

“It’s never been this crowded,” he said as he brought a few coins of change out. Mr Weasley outstretched his hand, eager to escape to their tent.

“And what’s even more strange, they all seem to know one another. Like there’s some party going on. Some grand get together of all the weirdos in the area. You part of them?”

Suddenly a man appeared at Mr. Roberts’ side, startling all seven of them, and pointed a wand at his head and murmured, “Obliviate.”

Immediately the skeptical look on Mr. Roberts’ face vanished, replaced by a glazed over vacancy. His eyes blurred slightly and his face slid into a faraway expression. The memory spell, Harry realized.

“Here’s a map. Of the campsite,” the wizard said plainly, handing over a map and change into Mr. Weasley’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you.” Mr. Weasley’s voice had returned to its natural octave. They all shuffled forward awkwardly, eyes never leaving the wizard who had in turn started to walk with them.

He was wearing dark blue plus-fours and his eyes were heavyset and tired. As they walked further away from Mr. Roberts and the cottage, he began muttering exasperated complaints to Mr. Weasley.

“So much  _ trouble  _ with that one. Needs a memory charm at least ten times a day! Can’t wait until this is all over. I can’t take it. Fuck Quidditch, honestly.”

Harry heard four intakes of breath and glanced around to see horrified expressions on each of the Weasley kids’ faces. He joined in too, glaring at the man’s audacity.

“And it’s not like Bagman’s helping either.  _ Nooo _ . That’s all he does, innit? Prancing around yelling about Bludgers and Quaffles and Snitches as if anti-Muggle safety wasn’t even a fucking thing. Oh Merlin, I’ll be so damn grateful when this stupid thing ends and Ludo can shut his mouth. Catch you later, Arthur.”

And with that, the wizard Disapparated, leaving them all standing there baffled.

“Isn’t Ludo Bagman Head of Magical Games and Sports?” Hermione stated.

“Shouldn’t he know better than to talk about Quidditch?” Ginny asked.

“He should,” Mr. Weasley said with a jovial smile, “Ludo’s quite a character when it comes to Quidditch. And he’s always been quite...lenient, is it?...with the rules. A thoroughly enthusiastic man. You could never ask for a better head of the sports department.”

“Besides the leniency with rules,” Hermione added casually with a small shrug. Harry rolled his eyes fondly.

“He played for England you know,” Mr. Weasley added, adjusting the bag he was carrying on his shoulder. “Wimbourne Wasps. He was the greatest Beater they ever had.”

Ron nodded as if he agreed. They all continued making their way to their tent, passing by others as they went. Harry noticed a few chimneys and weather vanes here and there, interrupting the overall strictly Muggle feel to the entire site. As they continued along for another five minutes, he saw a grandiose tent up ahead that had the appearance of a palace. It was made of draped silk that was pink and white striped with an occasional embroidered peacock feather. To match, three live peacocks pranced about in front. The majestic birds were tethered by long satin leashes, so they pranced half-heartedly in small circles. 

Harry had to fight the urge to set them free and yell a sarcastic remark at whoever thought it was a good idea to restrain such impressive creatures.

After they passed the palace tent, they came upon a three story spectacle that was built almost like a miniature castle, with turrets, a barbican, a portcullis and the like. It had a front garden that boasted a pearlescent seven-foot fountain along with a birdbath and a golden sundial. Again, Harry had to fight the urge to yell at these people. It was unbearably extravagant and while he had an appreciation for the luxury and finery, it all seemed a bit too much like showing off. Harry didn’t like people who showed off for the sake of showing off. It made everything sour and superficial.

“They’re not even trying,” Ron grumbled. “Now that just screams magic doesn’t it?”

Harry nodded as they trudged past the outlandish tents.

“Here we are,” Mr. Weasley smiled and ushered everyone over to a grassy area. They were all more than ready to relax in a tent for a bit. Harry wanted to sit down somewhere soft and cushioned and possibly nap a bit. Or stare up at the canvased ceiling and try and sort out his constant internal chaos.

“Right, we’re going to go about this the Muggle way, then,” Mr. Weasley began excitedly. Harry groaned. He had forgotten about that. They all shouldered off their packs and bags and set about the tents. Harry and Hermione ended up doing most of the work, though they honestly knew little more about Muggle tenting than the Weasleys did. After they were done, Harry stood back and admired the two man tents they had managed to put up—quite an unrefined job but successful nonetheless. The two canvas tents flapped in the breeze and Harry realized that while the current party would fit sort of comfortably, once the rest of the attending Weasleys arrived, things would get quite cramped. There was absolutely no way ten people were going to fit into two two-person tents. Harry was about to voice this concern when Mr. Weasley sighed loudly and crouched down to enter one tent.

“It’ll be a bit cramped, especially when the rest of the boys arrive. But I think we’ll all be just fine, if anything Bill can sleep on the couch in the common room,” he said, voice fading out a bit as he disappeared past the front flap.

Harry stared for a moment. There was no such thing as a couch in the common room in a tent. He must’ve misheard. Perhaps Harry was more internally chaotic than he realized.

“Well, come on in, then!” Mr. Weasley’s voice rang out from somewhere far away. Harry frowned and walked forward gingerly, crouching to enter the tent, and almost falling on the floor in surprise.

He gaped in awe as Ron entered and walked into the tent beside him. But it wasn’t a tent. It was a cozy three bedroom loft with a separate eat-in kitchen and a large common area. Off to the side was a door left ajar that gave a peek of a decent looking bathroom with a gray tiled shower. There were mismatched chairs set up around a rickety looking dining table and old couches that were quite ugly but seemed to fit in just as well with the almost unbearably homey atmosphere. Scattered plates and mugs and a single purple kettle filled the surface area of the kitchen counter. All three bedrooms had doors and boasted double twin beds with pastel quilts. Ginny started to set up her stuff in one room where Hermione began tidying up a bit. Fred and George quickly made themselves comfortable on one of the couches, gangly limbs thrown every which way, and were in deep discussion about something Harry couldn’t care less about at the moment. He dragged his pack with him to the room farthest from the girls and dropped his stuff next to his bed. He then proceeded to flop onto the bed before coughing up a mouthful of stale dust particles.

“Borrowed tent,” Mr. Weasley said with an understanding smile as he entered the room. “It’s Perkins’, nice man from work, but he doesn’t camp much anymore so it’s a bit of a fixer-upper here and there. He’s got lumbago, the poor old chap. He’s letting us use it for the next few days. You alright, my boy?”

Harry nodded and got up to follow Mr. Weasley out of the room and into the kitchen, still in a trance of sorts.

“Now, we do need water,” Mr. Weasley murmured as he grabbed the purple kettle.

“Here,” Ron said out loud, pointing to somewhere on the map they had received from Mr. Roberts, “‘S on the other side of the field.”

“Mm. Why don’t you and Harry go out and fetch us some. Take Hermione with you, maybe? And the rest of us’ll get some wood for the fire, how’s that?”

“But, Dad, we can just use the oven like  _ normal _ —”

“Ron Weasley!” Mr. Weasley called out, an anticipatory edge to his voice, “Muggles don’t use ovens, they boil water and cook meals on the fire. It’s exciting and fun and we’re doing it too.”

Ron looked more than put out. “But—”

“No buts! It’s brilliant. It’s the Muggle way,” Mr. Weasley’s eyes twinkled with the same kind of triumphant wonder a young child would have.

“Well the Muggle way is plain stupid,” Ron said petulantly.

He looked to Harry, as if expecting him to join and speak up but Harry simply nodded resolutely and shrugged. Ron gave him a sour look before dropping the rest of his stuff in their room and calling Hermione. The trio made their way out of the tent and set off across the campsite armed with the kettle and various pots to fill.

“Not everyone cooks on fire,” Harry added quietly to Ron with a small smile. “Not that I would know, anyways.”

Ron awarded him a breathy, carefree laugh, the frown leaving his face instantly. Hermione joined in and Harry grinned at the sight.

“Of course, I don’t mind doing things the plain stupid way,” Hermione added.

“Oh yeah, me too,” Harry nodded vigorously, shiteating grin still plastered on his face.

Ron rolled his eyes and awarded Harry with a small smirk of his own. “Shuddup.”

The sun was beginning to rise and a soft yellow glow settled upon the field of tents. Harry watched as children and families began to stir awake, hanging around just outside their tents.

“Oi,” Ron nudged Harry with a smile on his face, “That’s bloody adorable, innit?”

Harry followed his line of vision to two little children riding tiny broomsticks. They were no more than a couple inches off of the ground, and the broomsticks couldn’t have been longer than two feet.

“Fucking hell! Right there in plain sight of  _ anybody,  _ doesn't anyone just  _ listen _ , Merlin, I swear—” a wizard barreled past them, dressed in Ministry robes and muttering angrily to himself.

“That’s nice,” Harry said with a nod, watching as the children giggled to each other and exchanged secret looks before slipping off the brooms and running inside. 

Harry felt a distant ache of nostalgia and looked away.

Along their walk, the three of them were privy to a comedy show of sorts—wizards trying to cook breakfast the Muggle way. Harry and Hermione laughed out loud at the clear struggle to commit to processes without the help of magic. 

A particularly conspicuous group of wizards wearing bright orange robes stood around a meager fire holding flints and matchboxes. They were speaking in a foreign tongue that sounded like varying hisses and deep long vowels. They passed by a casual group of American witches and wizards arguing about whether they should do things the Muggle way or the magic way. 

Sure, if Harry could choose, he would always go for magic. He hated cooking. It was a forced chore back at the Dursley’s. They didn’t make him do it as much now, but when he was younger he would nurse many burns on his little fingers from trying to handle a heated pan. Perhaps, that was one of the reasons they had started to refrain from making him cook—it was getting too tedious to bear with his injurious incompetence.

“Oi!” Ron snapped his fingers in front of his face and Harry blinked a couple times in rapid succession. They had reached their destination. The line for the tap spanned a good distance of around fifteen people.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Ron asked, concern written all over his pale freckled face. Harry nodded with half a smile and threw an arm around his favorite boy.

“Yeah, mate. I’m good,” he insisted and squeezed his arm around Ron’s neck in a friendly gesture. The other boy was a couple inches taller so it was a bit of an effort but it still ended in Ron spitting out a foul exclamation and wrestling Harry into a headlock of his own. The pots in their grips clattered to the ground.

“Boys!” Hermione cried out shrilly. “Honestly!”

Harry laughed out loud, carefree, and Ron joined in as they continued to play wrestle, locking arms around torsos and limbs. Harry yelped as an elbow pressed sharply into his ribcage and a teasing chuckle followed the painful gesture.

“Fuckit, Ron!” He cried out with a breathy, pained laugh. Ron’s face was flushed and Hermione stood to their side with her arms folded and a stern expression to match. It put something in Harry at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> thank you so much for reading!! i just realized how much i love writing these characters while i was writing this chapter. i love these idiots so much. 
> 
> this is definitely a more in-depth re-write of the book(s), only because i want to do justice to its details (that's what makes the story so incredible). i'm trying to stay true to events and dialogue and characters as much as possible.  
> so in that respect, i do not mean to infringe on another person's work. any and all elements created by the original author, belong to the original author.
> 
> i'm just reimagining it in my own style with my own ships :)
> 
> until next time,  
> n.


	3. harry potter and the wetherbys.

Good _God_.

They were in a world of bright green.

“Don’t have to wonder about where we are,” Ron grumbled out. 

“They’re not exactly subtle, are they?” Hermione noted.

Harry shrugged, “You’ve got to give them points for it, though.”

An unimpressed look from Ron had him setting his water-filled pots down carefully and holding his palms up in a defensive manner and explaining, “It’s definitely a form of self-expression.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Harry.”

Harry threw his hands up loosely, in a mock helpless gesture.

“Hiya, Ron, is that you?” A voice carried from somewhere to their left. Harry turned his head to find an overzealous Seamus Finnigan dressed and painted head to toe in leprechaun green. He was walking excitedly over towards them.

“Hallo Harry, Hermione.”

“Hey, Seamus,” Ron called out sagely. He gestured distastefully to the other boy’s appearance and said in a dull tone, “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

Seamus let out a happy laugh and waved a hand dismissively in the air. “It’s all in the nature of it, yeah?”

Just then, Dean Thomas stepped out of a tent that was covered in lime green shamrocks.

“Oh, hey Ron, Hermione, Harry,” Dean said casually. He waved as he walked over and Harry offered him a friendly smile. Dean was dressed much less garishly, in a dark blue jumper and a casual pair of maroon trousers. Harry appreciated that in the current landscape.

“How’s it going?” he asked their fellow Gryffindor.

Dean shrugged and tilted his head to the right, “Good, I suppose, considering we’re only hours away from the Cup. Also a bit sick. From the color green.”

Seamus shoved the other boy with a playful glare and the two spilled into laughter. A lady, who appeared to be Mrs. Finnigan, walked out from the same tent. She, like her son, was wearing green clothing like it was the only thing left in the world. She had an Irish flag knitted into her jumper. The message was clear. Harry was starting to feel a bit assaulted by the monochrome festivities.

“Well, hello loves!”

“Hi, Mrs. Finnigan,” the three of them chorused.

“Are you for Ireland?” Mrs. Finnigan asked cheerfully.

Ron looked grumpily to the left, slumping his shoulders and pouting like a disappointed child. He nodded.

“Yeah, well, best be on our way. We’ve got water to bring back to the tents,” he said morosely. Hermione balanced the kettle against her chest and slapped him upside the head with a stern glare before plastering on a smile and calling out polite goodbyes to their classmates and Mrs. Finnigan.

After Harry carefully lifted the two pots of water and repositioned them in his grip, the three of them walked away, Ron rubbing the back of his head in angry surprise. Just as they were out of earshot, Hermione tugged on his arm harshly and hissed into his ear.

“Don’t rain on everyone’s parade just because you’re in love with some famous Quidditch star on the other team!”  
Ron spluttered, “I’m not in love with the bloke, Hermione!”

Harry laughed as Ron’s ears turned red and a deep crimson blush spread across his face and neck.

“It’s okay, Ron,” Harry said seriously, “Suppose a Quidditch player’s just your type. I’m honestly offended I’m not your first choice.”

“I agree,” Hermione nodded. Harry bit back a grin and nodded as well. They both looked to Ron who looked about ready to explode, might as well have steam coming out of his ears and smoke curling off of his skin. As they continued walking, they came upon the Bulgarians—well, the Bulgarian tents. The three of them put down their pots and saucepans, tired from carrying the heavy load, to leisurely observe the sight before them.

Red, green, and white flags flapped in the slight breeze of the late morning and the same majestic poster was plastered across almost every available surface. Some even flapped from vertical poles in place of the national flag. Each poster was filled up with the moving image of the team’s seeker. He had a grumpy face that was long and surly with thick eyebrows and dark sunken eyes that darted around predatorily. His jaw was powerful and rigid and Harry wondered if he really was as impressive as he looked in the photos.

“He’s quite grumpy looking,” Hermione muttered. Harry agreed.

“He is.”

“They’re usually not very high ranking in the looks department, are they, quidditch players?” Hermione mused out loud.

“Hey, I actually take offense to that,” Harry raised his hand indicatively.

“Hm, you could do better, Ron.”

“His name’s Krum, and I couldn’t care less what he looks like!” Ron stated firmly

“Krum?” Harry repeated in mock curiosity, pretending to feel the name in his mouth as he said it.

“Yes. Viktor. Krum. He’s a bloody good Seeker, a _genius_.”

“ _Viktor_ Krum?” Harry repeated, again in the same manner, squinting his eyes and twisting his mouth as he said the words. Hermione hummed and joined in on Harry’s dramatized musings, a shadow of a smile playing on her lips as she quirked them.

“Yes,” Ron rolled his eyes in increasing frustration, “And he’s really young, too. Like eighteen or so. It’s what’s so impressive—”

“Oh then he’s just four years above you—”

“Hermione!” Ron spluttered out.

“I’m sure _you_ find him _impressive_ , Ronald.”

“Fuck you both!” Ron screeched, before stomping away from where the two of them burst out into laughter. Harry felt his cheeks flush red as he leaned into Hermione, holding his stomach. Hermione threw an arm around his waist and laughed into his shoulder. They both stood there, uncontrollable and breathless, tears trickling down their cheeks, as they tried to reign it in.

It took them a couple minutes to sober up enough to look straight, in which time Ron had disappeared from sight.

“Oi,” Harry called out, “Mate, we can’t carry all of this by ourselves! Come back!”

They heard an echoed refusal somewhere to their right behind a cluster of tents.

“Ron,” Harry called out laughing, “We’re sorry, just come back.”

Harry watched as Ron appeared around the corner of the tents and walked over to them with an unmistakable annoyance to him.

“Sorry,” Harry smiled softly. Ron rolled his eyes, grumbling as he bent down to pick up two saucepans. They continued on their way, walking at a careful but quick pace back to the tent, as the sun slowly rose in the sky.

___

Harry had never really had a crush on someone before. Not really.

But Cho Chang was the closest he’d gotten to love-dumb since he could remember. They found her along with a few other girls from Hogwarts.

“Hiya Harry,” Cho waved and Harry grinned and waved back, forgetting about the big pot of water in his grip.

“Harry!” Hermione warned as water sloshed all over the front of his t-shirt and down the front of his pants.

_Shit._

Harry’s ears turned pink and he quickly righted the pot in his arms, taking care to cover as much of his soaked clothes as he could.

“H-hey, Cho,” he choked out, still blushing profusely and trying to ignore the fact that it looked like he had wet himself. 

Cho laughed softly—an enchanting sound that made Harry’s heart jump—and nodded.

“How are you?” Her voice was gentle and pretty with a slight Scottish lilt. 

Harry sighed internally.

“I’m, uh, I’m doing cool,” Harry answered. Ron snorted behind him.

“That’s good to hear,” Cho said with a friendly smile, glancing at Ron and Hermione.

“It’s nice to see you, Cho,” Hermione said, ushering the boys with a few careful nudges.

“We need to—” Harry cleared his throat, “I mean, we’ve got to get these back to the tent. Tents. You know, for drinking and whatnot.”

Cho nodded, “Of course, of course. You guys go on. It was nice seeing you all.”

Hermione smiled and she and Ron began walking.

“See you later, Harry,” Cho added after a moment.

“Right,” Harry smiled absentmindedly as he slowly followed behind Ron and Hermione, who were barely containing their amusement. After they were out of sight, and Harry finally blinked out of his lovesick stupor, Ron let out a sharp giggle, followed by Hermione who unsuccessfully tried to stop herself with pursed lips.

“Oh shuddup,” Harry rolled his eyes at his friends and trudged past them, eager to get back to the tents before anyone else important saw his soaked clothes.

___

“You’ve been out for ages,” George called out laboriously to them as they entered their tent site.

“We,” Ron sighed out, “Ran into a few people. Saw some kids from Durmstrang, I think. Harry wet himself.”

“I didn’t—we met Ron’s soulmate,” Harry added in retaliation. Though he was still slow with awe at the fact that other wizarding schools existed outside of Hogwarts.  _ Duh, Harry. The world didn’t revolve around Britain, did it? _ He wondered if his fame stretched to all corners of the world. Probably not.

“Might be refreshing to move to Brazil, then,” Harry muttered under his breath at the thought.

“What?” Four voices asked in unison and Harry looked up, startled, before turning red and shaking his head dismissively.

“Nothing,” he said, before catching sight of the curious and terrifying image in the far corner.

Fred followed his line of sight and barely suppressed a snicker of laughter.

“Dad’s….having fun with the, uh matches. That’s what they’re called, innit?”

“Yes, Fred, I do believe so. Temperamental little things, at least Dad makes them appear so,” George mused.

Mr. Weasley, was indeed, unsuccessfully trying to light a fire with a box of matches, and had been clearly attempting to for a while if the broken and splintered matchsticks littering the floor around him were anything to go by. At least he appeared unbothered, though. In fact, he looked like he was having the time of his life, the most fun he’d ever had. 

“Ah!” Mr. Weasley’s eyes lit up at the same time as the match in his hand, but he promptly dropped it in hasty surprise and uttered a reverent, “Oops.”

Hermione took pity on him and offered to help, teaching him how to light one and start the fire with it.

“So what’s all this about soulmates?” Fred asked, turning back to Harry and Ron who were still standing near the entrance, having been caught up in watching Mr. Weasley.

Ron scoffed immediately, “Nothing of any actual meaning. Harry and Hermione are just dunces who have nothing better to do.”

“Ron, that almost sounds like a confession,” Harry said in a scandalized whisper.

Ron promptly flipped him the bird, as he set down his load of pots and stalked off into the tent.

“My word, you are brilliant! This is brilliant!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed, as Hermione finally managed to teach him how to light a fire, and a blazing pocket of flames burst into life. He wrapped an arm around her and squeezed her into his side with the countenance of a proud father.

Harry bit back a smile at the endearing awe in Mr. Weasley’s reaction.

It still took a while for the water to boil and the pans to heat enough for cooking, which was enough time for Ron to emerge from the tent, and for the rest of them to tease him a bit more until he threatened to go back in again. After that, Mr. Weasley took over most of the conversation, and mentioned details about the Ministry, introducing characters Harry had never heard of and doubted would be useful anytime soon, so he guiltily tuned out most of Mr. Weasley’s chatterings.

Just as they laid a meal of sausages and eggs on the pans, Bill, Charlie, and Percy came into view with wide smiles.

Bill waved at them and Harry and Hermione waved back. Charlie waved enthusiastically in response. Bill quickly pinched him in the side, to which Charlie yelped and realized with a dim look of realization that they had been waving to his brother and not him. He laughed it off, running a hand through his long red hair.

“Hello, Dad,” Percy said, a bit breathlessly, as if he’d just been running.

“Fantastic, lunch!” Bill called, slapping a hand against Ron’s back (to which Ron lurched forward unflatteringly and Harry had to suppress a laugh).

The three new Weasleys settled in with them, and they all ate their breakfast in jovial peace, sharing the occasional joke or indulge in the awe-struck ramblings of Mr. Weasley’s muggle fascination.

“Ah!” Mr. Weasley stopped abruptly during one such rambling, to gesture towards a man approaching them in dark Quidditch robes. “Ludo!”

Harry thought Ludo lived up to the talk he’d heard about him so far. Upon closer inspection, Bagman’s robes were pinstriped with yellow, and a large gaudy wasp was the focal point on his chest, glittering and seemingly fluttering on the thick fabric of his robes. The man himself was sparkling with presence, although Harry thought that was the extent of his ‘charm’. His face wasn’t particularly handsome, and what Quidditch-trained build he might have had before, was hidden underneath a noticeable belly. Though he still had the look of a man who had played once, long ago. His nose was rather flat, and he lacked any definition in his face aside from bright, twinkling blue eyes that gave him the jarring countenance of an excited schoolboy. A very overgrown schoolboy, was Harry’s final impression of him.

“A-Hoy!” Ludo Bagman saluted energetically, a slight bounce in his step, as he walked over to them.

Harry couldn’t imagine how much effort it must take to be so jubilant all the time, if this was how Ludo Bagman _was_ all the time. Though maybe the Quidditch World Cup was to thank.

“What a day, what. A. _Day_!” Bagman said breathlessly, “Arthur, man, what a day! Perfect weather! Cloudless sky tonight. Perfect, perfect! Everything is going quite perfectly, I barely have anything to do!”

Percy immediately took Bagman’s hand in manufactured reverence. Perhaps his distaste for Ludo Bagman’s leadership in the department he worked in, was not thorough enough to stop him from wanting to make a good impression.

“This is my son Percy,” Mr. Weasley introduced with a grin, “He’s just started his job at the Ministry, and this is Fred. No, wait, that’s George….no, my apologies, that’s Fred. _That’s_ George. This is my eldest, Bill, there’s Charlie, Ron, my daughter—and the youngest—Ginny, and, well, these are Ron’s friends! Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.”

As expected, Ludo Bagman did a rather unsubtle double take at the words ‘Harry Potter’, and he immediately looked at Harry’s forehead.

Perhaps Harry should request to be introduced by his first name only. There _had_ to be other blokes named Harry. He should grow his hair longer and shaggier. Get new glasses. Hermione could transfigure them. Or he could, since he didn’t really care much for their appearance so long as they were _functional_. And Harry could do functional. Well, most of the time.

“Kids,” Mr. Weasley addressed them all. There was a small pipe of voice from Bill who said something about not being a kid anymore, but Mr. Weasley shushed him with a subtle wave of his hand.

“Kids,” he addressed them again, “This is Ludo Bagman, you all recognize him, I believe. You know, it’s thanks to him we have the wonderful tickets that we do. Great seats, really.”

Bagman positively beamed at that and waved like he was attributing the deed to himself, as if there were other men standing around named Ludo Bagman. Then, he scoffed, and swiped his hand through the air dismissively, like he was assuring them all that the deed was nothing of effort or inconvenience.

“Arthur, good man,” Bagman produced a large pouch that seemed to be filled with coins, as he threw it up and down with noticeable _clinks_ and _jingles_ , waggling his eyebrows. “I’ve already got the lad Ponter betting me Bulgaria will _score_ first—though I offered him particularly nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are stronger and better than I’ve seen in _years_ , I’m being frank about that—”

“Oh,” Mr. Weasley seemed to ruminate for a minute, “Well, okay. Let’s….put a Galleon on an Irish victory?”

“A Galleon?” Ludo Bagman asked with the disappointment of a child finding out Father Christmas wasn’t real.

Harry snorted. What would Mr. Weasley do with the legend of Father Christmas? Maybe Harry should introduce it to him over holidays.

“Right, okay,” Bagman said, putting on a straight face and scanning his eyes over the rest of the group, “Any other takers?”

“I think they’re a bit too young—”

“We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickels, and, uh, three Knuts!” Fred called out immediately, as he and George quickly pooled and counted all their collective money. “Ireland wins. But Krum catches the Snitch.”

“Oh, and we’ll put this fake wand on the table as well,” George said, brandishing a wand that Harry would’ve thought was real had he not heard so.

“Don’t go showing rubbish like that—” Percy hissed.

“A fake wand!” Ludo Bagman said, his eyes bright with interest. He took it from George and watched with amused rapture as it gave a shrill squawk and promptly turned into a rubber chicken in his hands.

“My word!” Bagman laughed uproariously, “That is quite excellent! I’ve never seen one so real. Never! Do you know what, boys? I would pay five Galleons for this!”

Percy froze at that, disapproving frown still folding his features.

Mr. Weasley expressed his objection to the twins betting, but Bagman immediately waved him off, calling him a spoilsport.

“Ah, well, you boys think Ireland’ll win but Viktor Krum will catch the snitch? Thata’s quite...specific. No chance, gentlemen, I will give you good odds on that, won’t I? Since there’s absolutely no chance. And we’ll add five Galleons for the wand, of course,” he spoke, trailing off as he whipped out a notebook and began writing it all down. He ripped the parchment off with a flourish and handed it to George who took it with a friendly, “Cheers” and tucked it away in his pocket.

“Fancy a quick brew, Arthur?” Bagman asked amicably. “I’m actually looking for Barty Crouch. I can’t understand a word the Bulgarians are saying, and they have been saying a lot, and Barty’s quite good with languages—speaks about a hundred and fifty of ‘em, if I recall—so I’m hoping he’ll help me sort it out.”

“Mr. Crouch?” Percy asked, suddenly very excited. “He speaks over two hundred!”

He went on to list them, and Harry felt a bit dizzy at the idea that someone would be fluent in that many languages.

After a moment, Fred scoffed at Percy, and assured, “Well, anyone can speak _Troll_. All you have to do is, like, point and grunt.”

He demonstrated so, and Percy threw him a nasty look.

“Oh, any new information about Bertha Jorkins?” Mr. Weasley asked Bagman.

“No,” Bagman said with a sigh as he settled down, “Eh, but she’ll turn up sometime soon. Most likely lost, lost track of time, lost track of place. Arthur,” he paused with a grin before continuing, like he was about to tell a joke, “I believe she’ll just wander into her office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.”

Mr. Weasley offered a half-hearted nervous laugh before saying, “But, you don’t think it’s time someone was sent after her?”

Bagman squinted at something on his finger before raising his eyebrows inquisitively. “Barty keeps saying that,” he said. He looked up quickly, like a child catching eye of something shiny, and leapt to his feet in a rush.

“Speak of the devil, man!” Bagman cried out. “Barty!”

Barty Crouch was a stiff, rigid man of approximately ninety years old at _least_. He’d apparated to their fireside, looking the part of an old, stern man in a crisp shark grey suit that matched his perfectly combed hair and perfectly square mustache.

Harry understood why it was easy for Percy to idolize this man. He seemed to have attained some unattainable level of perfection and stature and following the rules, and if Percy strived for anything, it was that.

In fact, Barty Crouch was probably the only wizard so far who had impeccably followed the Muggle dressing rule, and that was probably the reason for the reverent sparkle in Percy’s eyes.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Ludo,” Crouch said in a sharp, impatient voice, “Unfortunately, the Bulgarians are verily insisting that we add a dozen seats to the Top Box.”

Bagman wore a face of relief and realization, “Oh, is that what they were—well, I thought one of them was asking me to borrow a pair of tweezers, ha!”

Percy quickly offered a cup of tea to Crouch who accepted in mild surprise with a short, “Why, thank you, Weatherby.”

Bill and the twins choked into their own cups of tea, snorting and wiping their faces in careless attempts to hide their amusements.

Percy went positively pink with embarrassment and focused back on the kettle like it required all of his attention just at that moment.

“So, how’s it, Barty?” Bagman asked, taking a proffered cup of tea from Mr. Arthur’s hands.

“Fairly busy,” Crouch responded dryly, “It is quite a task to organize functioning portkeys across five continents.”

“Well, then, I expect you’re part of the group who’re grateful there’s an end in near sight to all this?” Mr. Weasley said with a smile.

Bagman, to his credit, looked taken aback at such a notion.

“Over! I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so much _fun_ . And, well, we have got some more _fun_ to look forward to, haven’t we Barty? Still got some more _portkeys_ to get sorted?”

Crouch looked thoroughly unimpressed with Ludo Bagman’s anticipatory tone.

“We _agreed_ ,” he spoke like he was admonishing a child, “Not to make the announcement until we’ve sorted through all the details and what have you, so—”

“Yeah, but they’ve signed, haven’t they? They’ve all agreed, haven’t they? And the kids’ll all know soon enough, I mean, it is happening at Hogwarts—”

“We must meet with the Bulgarians,” Crouch interrupted sharply and quickly set down his cup of tea, “Thank you for the tea, Wetherby.”

“Oi, all right,” Ludo said under his breath, downing the rest of his tea in one swift motion and setting it down next to Crouch’s. He got up laboriously, though Harry believed it was more for show than actual effort.

“See you all later, then!” Bagman cried out with a grin, “I expect our next encounter will be in the Top Box—I am commentating, by the way!”

Crouch barely hid his eye roll before taking Ludo Bagman’s arm with a professional air and nodding to them all curtly. The two men disapparated with a distinct pop.

A short silence followed and Harry sipped on his tea, waiting for the quiet around them to break.

“So,” Fred said, drawing out the vowel and rounding out his mouth theatrically.

“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” George finished for him.

Mr. Weasley fish mouthed for a moment until his third eldest son cut in for him.

“It’s classified information,” Percy said with a haughty sniff, “Mr. Crouch was right not to divulge any information about it.”

“Oh do shut up, Wetherby,” Fred said poshly.

Harry had to hold back a snort of laughter by sipping graciously at his tea and taking a large bite out of his sausage. Next to him, Ron snickered quietly and they shared a moment of eye contact before bursting into fresh, poorly restrained laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone!!
> 
> i'm so very sorry for taking literal ages to upload again. i took a break for the semester because workload and online school were getting on top of me, and my mental health took a steep decline. but i've taken the holidays as an opportunity to get back on track writing this, and have tried to make up some cushion in my writing so i can more regularly update when work starts to pick up again! so fingers crossed i'll be better at this :)
> 
> thank you to everyone reading, it means so much to me!! i seriously love writing this wip, i'm just terrible at actually doing so haha
> 
> until next time,  
> n.


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